Tenus 105: Grey Eyes
by Azraeos
Summary: HP/LOTR: A man falls . . . through a door. He’s wounded, unconscious, and mind-bogglingly weird. Is anyone brave enough to help him? 'Tenus' extension.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or The Lord of the Rings

Disclaimer: I do not own _Harry Potter_ or _The Lord of the Rings_. They belong to J.K. Rowling and J.R.R. Tolkien, respectively. This is an amateur attempt. One which I am not making any profit over.

**Summary:** A man falls . . . through a door. He's wounded, unconscious, and mind-bogglingly weird. Is anyone brave enough to help him? _Tenus_ extension.

**A/N:** Should really belong in _TENUS_ but I thought it deserved its own space simply because of its length as _Tenus_ stories are usually drabbles and short one-shots. You can think of it as an extension of _Tenus_, though.

Yes, _The Black Wizard_ will be updated VERY soon.

On with the story!

Hope you enjoy.

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**Number 10.5****: Grey Eyes **

The man fell through the door, wood splintering with the force of the crash; the door, now broken in twain, dripped blood, the fallen man gasping and choking below it. A bit of door hanging off a bent nail broke off in the excitement and fell onto the man's head, knocking him out.

_Well,_ thought Barliman Butterbur, _that'll cost more'n a bucketful to fix I'd wager._

After a moment's hesitation, where he twiddled his rag in a dumb attempt to work out what he should do, he waddled around his counter, waddled the short distance to the entry, and knelt, joints creaking, beside the man. He lifted the man's wet head — and dropped it instantly, swearing. The man was _dead!_ His lips were all blue and his skin so pale that he resembled Barliman's once pristine apron. _What to do, what to do?_ He should mop up the spill, call his servants to help . . . he felt ridiculous when he spotted the thin back rise and fall gently. Why, the man was simply unconscious.

"Nothing to worry about!" he shouted to no one in particular. Without even having to look Barliman knew that his guests were already standing up, blades drawn (perhaps in a drunken attempt to defend their favourite and only drinking place). It would not do to have yet more trouble fall into his lap, as this man had done. The man had done nothing to warrant sharp steel felling his belly, and until he did something that would Barliman had to protect him. "This man here's my friend. Been expecting him to turn up. Poor blighter's feeling bit under the weather. Go on, back into yer seats! Free ale for everyone!"

A cheer went up as the men resumed their drunken revelry. He nodded to Nob to start handing out the pints, thinking his servant looked fairly woebegone, then turned back to the man currently bloodying his floor.

_Just what I need._

Barliman was first and foremost a host and he, out of duty, had to offer some sort of assistance. Clearly this man, however odd he may be, had come to the inn for help. Though, how he had managed to pass Harry the Gatekeeper in the condition he was in was anyone's guess. Odd folk always stopped by _The Prancing Pony_ for a drink and some honest company — like them Rangers — but this man, no matter how queer he may look, was certainly _not_ a Ranger.

"More like a fool," Barliman muttered as he looked over the man's robes. They were not unlike that chap Gandalf's, except black. Barliman had heard odd things about that Gandalf. Strange things that he daren't think about, even now. Especially not now with this man dangling almost in his lap. "Nob!" he called to the hobbit who had just rushed passed him, two pints in hand.

Nob stopped and turned so fast that ale sloshed over the rims of the mugs. "What, sir?"

"Get Bob. He's a bit bigger than you. I need his help to lift this man here."

Nob screwed up his lip. "But it's rainin' out!"

"Nob!"

"All right, all right."

"And take a lamp to light yer way!"

"Wait," a soft, deep voice intruded.

Barliman jumped; while Nob started so much all the liquid in the mugs plashed down his front. Neither noticed. Both were two busy gaping up at the dark Ranger who was at that _very moment _leaning over them.

"I will help," said the Ranger, voice never rising above room level.

Before Barliman could think to protest the Ranger knelt down and carefully removed the heavy wood lying over the man's head. He then took the stranger's arm and draped it over his shoulder. He stood, the stranger's leg's hanging lifeless, and more or less dragged him up to the second floor.

Shaking off his shock with a wave of his head, Barliman scurried up the stairs as fast as his bulk allowed him, eventually overtaking the Ranger and his strange baggage, and hastened them into an already prepared room.

"I must admit I don't rightly know what to do," Barliman scratched his bald head as the Ranger gently placed the man on a freshly made bed. The man seemed even more lifeless now, except. . . _What is that stick?_ "I'm no healer, and I'm no good with herbs, and that bump on his noggin looks right nasty."

The Ranger's eyes stared into his own, so pure grey and gentle-looking that Barliman's stuttering stopped altogether. "Do not concern yourself, Mr Butterbur," the Ranger said, placing a calloused hand across the stranger's forehead. "This man shall be under my care for now, at least until he is better. All I ask is that you bring me a clean cloth and some hot water."

"Nob can do that," said Barliman pointedly to the hobbit hanging on the threshold.

Nob sighed but darted out of sight.

"Anything else you might be needing?" Barliman asked. He was more fascinated by how kindly the Ranger was removing the stranger's strange clothing and tucking him in beneath the covers than to what he was asking. Almost as if . . . "Do you know this stranger, then, sir?"

"I have never before set eyes on him."

Well, that made no sense to Barliman whatsoever. How the Ranger could claim to not know the man lying on the bed when he quite clearly did was beyond the innkeeper's ability to understand. But he cared not either way. It was not his business what his guests got up to, though that did not stop him from being curious. "You look as though you do," he prodded, perhaps not wisely.

The Ranger, however, never took his eyes from his new charge. "He is . . . a mystery," said he, as if that answered everything. Perhaps for him it did.

"Right then," said Barliman, swinging his arms about for something to do. He spotted the stranger's discarded robes on the floor beside the bed, grabbed them, and tucked them beneath his arm. "I'll have this cleaned and. . ." _And what?_ He honestly couldn't think with that Ranger sitting right there.

But the Ranger merely smiled up at him. "Thank you, Mr Butterbur."

"Would you be wanting a bath, then?"

The Ranger gave his first grimace of the evening, even wiping his hands over his breeches as if to get rid of the dirt. It was in Barliman's opinion that he'd only gotten them dirtier. Both hands _and_ breeches. "Thank you, yes."

"I'll get help to fetch some water. Not Nob, though, he's too small. And I'm that busy tonight, so I may have to ask — well, not the maid she's too small, also, and too old. Perhaps one of the dwarves . . ." Barliman trailed off upon realising that he'd started to babble. Not that he didn't usually; it was just that the Ranger was a Ranger and Ranger's were _also_ strangers and it would not do to get one riled.

"Thank you."

Barliman bowed a little, still feeling awkward, then walked out and closed the door.

He blinked. "Well, then. This should be interesting." He began wringing his hands. Talk would no doubt start up as soon as the villagers found out about his odd guests. Barliman was used to talk — he ran an inn, after all, and catered to many a strange folk. But something told him his sleeping guest was even stranger than the usual strange.

Shrugging, he made his way off, almost knocking into Nob as he waddled down the stairs. He would have to bear with it, he supposed. He would find out about his guest soon enough, when he woke up.

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Two days past before his sleeping guest finally awakened; the Ranger had nursed him the whole while, except at that time when he had disappeared for half a day and came back with a bundle of kingsfoil. Barliman and his guests had simply watched, confused, as the Ranger bounded up to the second floor landing and disappeared into the room at the end.

"Senseless," Baggly Goatleaf, a regular customer, had muttered into his beer. Barliman had hushed him sternly for that remark. It wouldn't do to get a Ranger angry after all; you might find yourself missing a limb come morning.

Strider (as the people of the inn had so named the dark Ranger in the few days he'd been living amongst them) brought his charge to breakfast on the third morning, supporting the man's weight as he limped into a seat by the hearth, his left arm bandaged. Barliman thought it lucky that all his guests were still asleep — a consequence from an all night birthday party. The stranger kept his head down as the landlord placed a loaf of bread and some cheese on their table.

"Anything else, master?" he asked Strider.

Barliman watched in ill-concealed fascination as the weather-beaten man leaned towards the stranger and stroked his hair — as if he were a child. "Sir?" he said.

The man did not respond except to stare at the table, his breath low and rattling.

"Sir?"

This time the man whimpered at being addressed and huddled down even more so that he looked almost bent in two, the long strands of his black hair hanging greasy and limp over the plate of cheese.

"Sirius?"

The Ranger's voice had come soft and gentle with what had to be the stranger's name, no matter how queer it sounded. The stranger lifted his head, slowly, and inclined it toward his companion, as if in answer. He did not lift his gaze.

Strider exhaled slowly. "Some tea would do nicely."

It took Barliman a moment to work out who Strider was talking to. He nodded hurriedly and scurried away, suddenly chilled. _Odd folk, that._

The day past slowly. After breakfast Strider and his silent friend had secreted themselves back into their room and had not come down, even for supper. Though, Nob told him later that Strider had requested broth be brought up along with some tea.

Barliman had scolded his servant. "That aint enough. Here." He filled up two bowls of steaming rabbit stew, thought for a moment, then emptied one of them into the pot, pushing the other towards Nob. The _Sirius_ man may not have been able to eat solid foods just yet but Strider could, and Barliman could not in good conscience let a guest of his go hungry while there was more than enough food lying around not being eaten. "Go. And don't come back down till it's empty!" he'd shouted after the rushing hobbit.

After that not a peep was heard from his strange guests until three days later; and then it was much more than a peep. Once again Strider supported the stranger down the stairs for breakfast, the other five or so guests trying not to stare very rudely; except his dwarf guests. They did not care either way, merely contending themselves in the corner with their pipes and guttural chatter. Barliman noted for the first time, as they eased into a table beside the hearth, that both men were of a like build. The stranger was tall — tall as or perhaps even taller than Strider. This was odd; people of Bree not being very tall themselves and Ranger's being very tall as it was. Barliman wondered if the sick man were a Ranger himself. He even looked a bit like Strider with his long, mattered dark hair and grey eyes.

Eyes that had seen too much, perhaps.

_Humph! Don't know him my granny's foot,_ thought Barliman a little unkindly. It was obvious to him that the two men had to be related, at the very least distantly. All them Rangers were related in some way. Magic men, they were often called in Bree. They had queer powers, able to talk to birds and beasts. Barliman often thought to himself at night, when he had finished worrying about the next days' problems and whether Nob had cleaned out the kitchen cupboard like he was supposed to, that Rangers had to be descendents of wizards or elves. They were just too queer to be regular men. Their eyes, like this sick man's, also made Barliman — who was not a young man himself anymore — feel as dithery as a school lad caught with a toad in one pocket and a slingshot in the other. Staring at Strider made Barliman feel as though he were looking at a man much older, and it gave him the collywobbles.

Staring at the stranger gave him the collywobbles.

So when Strider beckoned to him a minute later Barliman could not help but take his time waddling over to their table. When he finally arrived, flicking at a speck on his head to give his hands something to do so that he did not have to wring them, he noted how better the stranger was looking. No more did he seem on the verge of collapse. He was still very gaunt, true, but at least he was sitting upright and no longer staring downwards. He even attempted a smile as Barliman glanced at him.

"What can I do for you, sirs?" The double greeting came to him naturally now that this Sirius was looking a bit saner.

"Some honey and bread this morning I think, and then I should like to talk to you Mr Butterbur," said Strider. "If you please."

Barliman blinked. Now that was unexpected. "Of course, Strider. I'll be trotting off then, with your orders. Back soon." He was bursting with curiosity that this Ranger who, so far as Barliman knew, had not yet talked to anyone; not even to impart stories around the tables like the other Rangers sometimes did at the request of nosy townsfolk. And now Strider wanted to talk to _him_.

He came back not two minutes later.

"Please have a seat," said Strider, stretching out for a slice of bread and the honey pot. This he set in front of the stranger, who reached for them with slightly trembling fingers. Barliman and Strider watched as the stranger carefully spread the honey thickly over the bread . . .

"You were wanting to speak with me about something?" Barliman reminded the Ranger after a while of watching.

"Yes," said Strider, leaning backwards in his chair. "And you needn't watch what you say, Mr Butterbur. Sirius does not speak the Common Tongue, as far as I can tell. I have been communicating with him through gestures. What little I have gleaned from him is his name and that only while spoken in the midst of a great fever, which I have nursed him from."

"If you don't mind my asking, sir," said Barliman, thinking the whole thing very mysterious and fascinating and how could anyone besides maybe an elf or a dwarf not speak Westron? "but if you don't know him why did you help him like you did?"

Strider waited a while before responding, his eyes glazing over as if he were thinking about other things in other times. "He reminds me of my kinsmen . . . and there is something about him. Nothing wicked I assure you," Strider told him hastily after Barliman had raised his brows. "I think only that he is a long way from home and something very horrid has happened to him recently. He has no one and knows no one, that much I know."

"What _I_ would like to know is how he got into Bree in the first place," Barliman said, picking at his beard. "The gatekeeper doesn't remember letting him in, and I find this whole business very troubling if you don't mind my saying. I'm bound to loose customers over it once the rumours spread and Harry's mouth runs ahead of his brain."

That had been a very unpleasant thing to find out yesterday. Often the gatekeeper would come into the inn for a pint before or after his shift, and Barliman had asked him outright how he could let such a strange and obviously barmy man into the village when he had always been so careful before. That was when Harry had become offended, saying that he remembered no strange-clothed sickly man knocking at the gates, nor did he remember anything unusual happening on the night in question. After that Barliman had quickly ended the conversation, not wanting to give Harry more gossip for the rumour-mongers.

But then how had Sirius got in?

Surely he hadn't climbed over the gates? He'd been so poorly a week earlier that he had knocked the front door off its hinges while falling unconscious. Someone that ailing could not have tricked the gatekeeper. Besides, Harry would have seen and heard him had he jumped the gates.

"We can only wait until he learns Westron to find out," said Strider, jolting Barliman from his musings.

"Too right."

"That brings me to my point . . ."

Barliman sat up. Strider was looking straight at him, grey eyes piercing and dangerous yet expectant. As if he wanted . . . "Aye?"

The Ranger leant back in his seat, feet crossed at the ankles, lifting his butterknife by its wood handle. The blade glinted dull steel as the strong fingers twirled it in a ray of sunlight. "I wish for Sirius to stay here, Mr Butterbur," said he, in a _very_ deep voice. "I will give you coin for everything. I only want you to make sure that Sirius learns the tongue, that he stays well, that he walks about the town in the fresh air."

"O-of course," the innkeeper stuttered, wiping a bit of sweat off his brow. "This is a fine establishment, my good friend, and Barliman Butterbur can't just throw a person out when they've done no wrong!"

Strider sat up. "Then I can leave him in your good care and in the care of your servants until I return in two months' time?"

"Er . . ."

"Excellent!" He stood, a bewildered Barliman following. "I shall be off now! I've been away for too long as it is."

"Now?"

But Strider wasn't listening. No more was he the Ranger. Now he seemed more like a parent as he knelt beside the stranger's chair, putting a hand on his arm to get his attention. The stranger turned. "I'm leaving now, Sirius. You understand?" Strider made a walking gesture with his fingers then pointed to himself. "Me? Leaving now? Understand?"

The stranger nodded slowly, the anguish evident in his grey eyes.

Strider placed a gentle hand on the man's head. "Do not be afraid, my friend. I _will_ come back for you. After I have finished what I must do I will come back for you and take you to a dear friend of mine. He can help you."

Sirius nodded, though it was clear he understood nothing.

Strider straightened and looked down into Barliman's face. "Take good care of him, please. I know him only a little but what little I do know is hard not to admire. He has become a friend to me."

"Course." Barliman smoothed out his apron and saw that Strider had removed a small pouch from out of his right boot. "You needn't pay me anything, master! I got to thinking, see, while you were speaking, and I believe it would be better if Sirius should work for his board instead. That way he can be around people, if you get my meaning. He can learn our language faster."

Strider smiled. "That is an excellent suggestion, Mr Butterbur," he said, retying his pouch and tucking it back into his boot. "Thank you very much."

"Oh, no need, sir." Barliman waved off the gratitude, though inside he felt quite proud of himself. "Truth to tell I've been looking for a new helper, I'm that short of staff. As soon as that arm heals he can start by sweeping the floors, that shouldn't be too hard for him I'd think. What _is_ that thing he's clutching, by the way?" It had been something Barliman had noticed ever since Strider had stripped the stranger of his clothes that very first night, but he had forgotten until just now when he saw the piece of wood again.

"A polished stick of some sort," answered Strider. "He hasn't released it in all the time that I have taken care of him."

"Not once?"

Strider shrugged his broad shoulders. "He simply won't. Even when sleeping I tried to pry it from his grasp . . . if anything he held on even tighter."

"Right." Barliman scratched his head. "That's good, I suppose, if it helps him than all the better I say."

Strider nodded. Then everything happened in a rush. There were a few more things to go over before Strider left — what room the stranger should stay in ("Oh, the one he's been using will do just fine!"), if Barliman could be so kind as to offer him some 'normal' clothes ("My good friend, Appledore, might spare a few tunics, he's about that size if we lower the hems. If not I'll scrounge something up from my own cupboard. I wasn't always this fat, you know"), and a hair cut.

"Now that is something I think he cannot do without. I'll send for the maid to help straight away with that. Nob!"

Strider said his goodbyes once more before ducking under the splinters of the still broken door that Barliman had not got fixed just yet; instead he'd had to employ a temporary guard to stand outside the inn at night — one of his late wife's young relations who was a mite too fond of his cups in Barliman's honest opinion. But he would not have had to employ anyone at all if the carpenter had not gone to visit his cousin in Combe, so he was stuck.

Strider had just left the inn when a small moaning noise sounded from Barliman's left. The landlord had just enough time to turn when the stranger was up and out of his chair, eyes almost wild, limping toward the entrance, robes streaming in his wake.

"Ho there! Now, you really oughtn't do that . . ."

But the stranger was already out the door. Barliman scuttled after him, belly jiggling (he really should ignore the tankards). When he reached the door he stopped at the sight that met his eyes.

The stranger, Sirius (after all, he could not be called a stranger anymore, not when Barliman himself was charged with his wellbeing), was embracing Strider tightly, muttering something under his breath.

Strider was patting the man's back in a brotherly way. "There, there now. This is a good place. You will be well taken care of. But I must go, Sirius."

Sirius tensed and drew back. "Go?" he tried in a very thick accent.

Strider looked relieved. He nodded. "Yes. I must go." He pointed to himself, then away. "Go?"

Sirius nodded. "Go." He suddenly tugged on the Ranger's arm and pointed a finger downward.

Strider stared, then nodded slowly. "Yes. I will come back."

Sirius smiled. "Yes."

And that was that.

Strider strode towards the stables and left them a minute later, trotting out of the doors and waving over his shoulder. Then he was gone round the corner, Bree-landers jumping aside to avoid the enormous warhorse and its equally dangerous rider. Sirius stood before Barliman, broad shoulders slumped.

Barliman walked up to stand next to him, surprised to note that his head only came up to the man's shoulder — he might have to rethink about lending Sirius clothes and just have them made for him. The idea wasn't an unpleasant one as he had enough material in his storeroom . . . Barliman stared up at the worn young face, the downwards gaze. "Strider is the only friend you've had here," said the innkeeper, finally realising. "Don't you worry now, you shall have plenty more soon and you can count me among them."

He gently took Sirius by his shoulders and ushered him inside, determined to make the poor man a cup of warm tea at least. Before they entered the inn completely Sirius stopped in the threshold, lifted his hand, and smoothed it over the rough, broken wood, small splinters crackling under the weight. His head turned towards Barliman, slanting brows crinkled, grey eyes imploring and a trifle guilty.

Barliman made a shushing noise and carefully picked up the hand. "There's no need for that, it was no fault of yours. You weren't exactly thinking straight, then."

Sirius continued to stare at him, but let himself be persuaded inside and into a comfortable chair by the fire.

"Now you just rest there and I'll get you some tea. Nob!"

A short while later Sirius sat in the same spot drinking his second cup of tea while Trilde the maid hovered over him, snipping away at the lanky black strands. "That ought ter do it, I'd say!" she finished with a final snip. "Looks more normal now. Where did you say he was from again, Barli?"

Trilde had taken over his wife's duty when she'd died; making the beds and washing up and so forth — the usual wifely things. The landlord did not appreciate her meddling, though, no matter if she were aged or not. "Get back old woman," he snapped. "And take your gossip with you. I'll not be having the whole village hear of this."

"The whole village knows, with or without my help. Everyone's curious about the stranger you've got hiding up here, beggin' yer pardon." She said this with a great deal of sweet on her tongue. Barliman shooed her away, closing his ears to her good-natured cackling.

_More like ha__g,_ he thought unabashedly.

He tsked a little and shuffled over to his charge's front. "Now let's see about getting you some breakfa—" Barliman's speech fell away much like his hair had twenty winters ago. Sirius, with his new haircut, looked even more like Strider now. "Erm . . . I'll be back with breakfast." He moved away fairly fast, once more chilled. _Just what is going on?_

Barliman Butterbur, innkeeper of _The Prancing Pony,_ was doomed to feel yet more chills as the two months sailed by, but by that point was to become so used to them that they would be as familiar to him as dressing in the morning. It all rather started after he'd returned with Sirius's breakfast. He'd happened to glance towards the entrance because the doorbell had jangled and a customer walked in. It hadn't occurred to him until later that night — as he sat up in bed, twisting his sheets fretfully — that the door _had been fixed!_ And all in the space of _two minutes!_ Barliman had not gone back to sleep, instead shivering like a baby under his blankets and wishing he had some hot tea to warm him up, or better yet some warm beer.

He avoided Sirius as much as he could for the next two days, assigning Nob to help him around and direct him his duties instead. But he was forced into an acknowledgment when he came down one morning and found that all the chairs had been replaced with . . . chairs. But no ordinary chairs, no; chairs fit for kings. With gilded frames and velvet red backing stitched over soft-feathered stuffing. Sirius sat in the middle of it all, sipping a cup of tea and twirling that polished stick around. Barliman had had to fend off quite a lot of questions from his guests that day, some who thought he had treasure hidden in one of the larger ale barrels in his cellar and were both jealous and angry that he had kept it to himself all these years. Barliman was then forced to confront Sirius (because he'd known it was Sirius's fault, no matter how unbelievable the whole thing was), and in a series of frantic gestures managed to convey that he wanted it all back to normal. Sirius had looked guilty once more, and Barliman felt cruel. He'd patted the man's shoulder. "I know you only meant to say sorry for what you'd done to the door," Barliman had said, watching as Sirius raked a hand through his hair, "but you have already fixed that and I don't need nothing else, thank you." He'd then turned his back very quickly so as not to witness his chairs succumb to what he'd known would be more unnaturalness.

Yet despite warning Sirius the days, weeks, and months thereafter were still filled with some kind of queerness. Barliman had not noticed that Sirius had changed clothing and could not for the life of him remember when he had done so, but it certainly hadn't been by using the spare material in the stockroom. Sirius looked very grand indeed with his knee-length breeches, grey shirt and brass-buttoned red waistcoat. It was very odd for a man to dress thus (like a hobbit), but Barliman had been too kind to tell Sirius, not wanting to shame the man. His shoes, though, were much like Barliman's own: black with a fancy buckle and just enough room for a thin stocking.

But that incident was mild compared to the others. Barliman, drowsy from sleep, had walked into the scullery one morning to witness his dough making itself. That is to say, _making itself into bread_. He'd walked right back out, but not before giving his hands a good wring. Then Nob had told him a couple of days later — in response to Barliman's query about why he'd banged into the inn at two in the morning and woken everyone up with his swaying and singing — that he'd been on holiday for the past week visiting his grandfather in Staddle and it wasn't his fault Barliman was so absentminded that he hadn't noticed. "Then why is everything so clean?" Barliman had asked, not really getting it.

"Sirius, sir," Nob had answered.

"Sirius?"

Nob had nodded.

Barliman had become grumpy. "And to think I was thinking about giving you more pay. The inn hasn't been this clean in twenty years and now I find out it hasn't been you all along?!"

Nob had made a face, then, that suggested he was thinking about asking for more pay anyway, but closed his mouth upon seeing Barliman's look.

But the worst had been yet to come.

Three elf guests had arrived about a week after the cleaning event and his charge had been delighted to see them. Not just delighted but _very_ delighted. He'd tried talking to them, communicating mostly with gestures and odd sounds that _could_ have been words while the elves looked on bemused, pointing at the funny-looking man and talking quietly to themselves in their own tongue. Well, Sirius had not been amused in the least. The next thing Barliman and his guests knew the elves were gone and in their place sat three croaking toads. The innkeeper had been _frantic!_ It had taken everyone a _long_ time to catch the blasted, hoppy things and even then Sirius refused to reverse whatever it was he had done.

"Please!" Barliman had begged, tears almost pouring from his eyes. "Please, sir."

Sirius had reversed the spell straight away, looking contrite and panicked. Barliman had forgiven him, but only because the elves hadn't seem to know that they'd been another species all together for the space of a whole _hour_.

"No more," Barliman had scolded Sirius later that night. "No more wizardry, I mean it; you're going to scare away my customers. Don't think I don't know what you are. You and that Gandalf give me the collywobbles, but you more so now as I haven't seen the pilgrim in years. Go wash up. And no more mischief!"

Sirius went.

Barliman had shaken his head. "What to do with him?"

Truth to tell he had begun to feel very fatherly towards his young charge — who could not have been more than five and twenty, but wizards did age very peculiarly — and had taken it upon himself to scold him whenever possible, especially when he knew that Sirius would never use his magic against him. Barliman had never had a son or close nephew, and Sirius seemed to be filling that role very nicely.

He'd chuckled to himself as he prepared for bed. It should be interesting to see what tomorrow would bring.

_Nothing much_ was the answer.

Sirius seemed to have taken Barliman's scolding to heart. When not planning mischief his charge was learning. What had started off in the beginning as, "Sirius need go." was now, "I need outhouse." What before was, "Saw . . . Bob . . . Trilde" (followed by a series of unclear gestures) was changed now to, "Saw Bob hands in Trilde's . . ." (followed by a set of very unmistakable gestures). His progress was satisfying from the innkeeper's point of view (if not a little alarming). He had not had to resort to hand gestures himself in quite a while.

Strider's two month mark passed by and still no Ranger graced their presence. Sirius did not seem concerned in the least, possibly because he hadn't understood Strider to begin with, but Barliman was getting a bit jumpy. Not that he disliked Sirius — far from it — it was only . . . what could he do for the man? It was obvious Sirius needed to be with his own kind, wherever they were. That he was using magic like his guests used ale meant that wherever he had been living before was _very_ different to where he was living now. The Ranger knew, or knew someone who knew, where Sirius's kin were. If only Gandalf the Grey would return; he would surely help his kindred were he to see him serving beer to a pack of scruffy Bree-landers. Sirius did not belong here in this backwater place. Barliman often thought to himself that Sirius was made for grander things.

Sirius himself may have known that.

That evening when everyone should have been asleep Barliman happened upon a peculiar, yet familiar, noise in the scullery. Upon further investigating, he discovered that the noise came from Sirius (not that there had been any doubt), who was leaning against the middle aisle, sobbing into a pint.

He hesitated for a split second, then inched carefully into the room. "Lad?"

Sirius started, liquid soaking his hair and face. He blinked, and in a series of quick movements tried to pretend he had not been weeping. He even tried turning around to wipe his face at one point. "Bah-li-mhan," he greeted in that odd accent of his. "What here you do . . . sleeping not?"

Barliman paused for a moment in order to digest that. He concluded Sirius had meant: _what are you doing here when you should be sleeping? _"I heard a noise."

Sirius tilted his head. "Noise?" he repeated.

"_Sound_. I heard a _sound_."

Ah. That word he knew. Sirrius ducked his head, red stains blooming across his cheeks. "I sorry."

"There's no need for that." Barliman had always been quick to assure Sirius, as the man . . . well, he was not very stable. Had not been, in fact, since he'd first crashed through the inn doors. He was doing better now, true, but at times an odd episode or two would catch him unawares, like now. Barliman had heard him on two other occasions but hadn't thought to intervene. Mostly because he had not thought it is right, but partly because Sirius just had not been able to make himself understood back then. Now, however, with Barliman feeling a sort of parental sympathy towards his charge he thought it his duty to ask. And it was not as though Sirius had been making a lot of noise, after all. Barliman had only heard him because he'd been pottering about the supper room. "You're feeling a bit under the weather?"

Sirius stared blankly.

Barliman thought, then tapped his chest. "You're feeling . . ." he tapped his chest again.

Sirius looked away.

"You're missing people from back home, are you not?"

Sirius's head jerked, for a moment his eyelids blinked faster than was normal. He understood 'home'.

"And where _is_ home?" Barliman ventured to ask.

"Home?" Sirius repeated in his croaky voice. He laughed; a bark, full of bitterness. "Home is Azkaban. Don't miss."

The innkeeper just managed to stop himself from blinking dumbly. _There is no sense in that sentence at all!_ Before he could think to question . . . something . . . Sirius continued:

"Not miss home. I miss people."

Ah. Well, that made a lot more sense. "Oh."

"My people dead."

Barliman blanched.

A heavy, pale hand raked through hair black as night. "Not _dead_ dead. But, er —" He bit his lip, frustrated. "Kill. They killed."

"You mean they were . . . _murdered_." Barliman whispered on that last word, aghast at the implications.

"Mur-murmued?" Sirius repeated the word, looking lost.

"Close enough." The innkeeper shrugged a little, not really paying attention. _Murdered? _Elbereth, what had the man been through? Or had his people been in a battle? Whatever it was it surely would have been horrid. No wonder Sirius hadn't been entirely . . . sane. "But you're doing better now?"

"Better?" Sirius shrugged. Those sad grey eyes stared straight into Barliman's own. "No. Miss . . . son."

"Son?!" Barliman's brows flew up. "You have a son?!" _Or is it _had? Barliman winced.

Sirius shook his head, clearly frustrated. "No, not son . . .exactly. Like son, but not . . . er . . . See, I _your_ charge." He pointed at the innkeeper. "Har-ee, he _my_ charge, but _more_. Like son." Sirius sighed heavily. "I not explain good. You understand?"

Yes, Barliman understood very well. He blinked out of the daze he'd been in, twirling his rag about. "It is all very sad, Sirius. I'm very . . . sad for you. Do _you_ understand?"

Sirius nodded, grimacing slightly.

"Good. Good. I shall see you tomorrow?" He had no idea why he'd felt the need to ask that.

Sirius nodded.

With nothing else to say, Barliman twitched, turned, and waddled out. The conversation with Sirius had given him the chills, yet again. _When is Strider coming?_ Once again Barliman had the thought that he could offer Sirius nothing. He could help Sirius with nothing. He could not help Sirius get his son back.

But somehow Strider could.

He felt more cheerful after remembering that, and his step was a sight more sprightly as he climbed the stairs to bed.

xxxxx

Strider arrived a week later.

Sirius left with him the next day and Barliman Butterbur never saw him again. But he would always remember that queer, young man who lived in his inn, who frightened his guests, and put spells on the dough. He would always remember those sad grey eyes, happy, for once, upon seeing Strider and the wizard he'd brought with him.

_Goodbye, Sirius, and may you find your son, wherever he is._

"Mr Butterbur?"

"Aye, what is it, Nob?"

"Mr Longholes broke one of them fancy tankards Sirius left behind."

"What are you telling me for? Get the broom, then, and clean it up! Hobbits."

The End.

xxxxxx


End file.
